He was not talking so fast now, but what he said was even more incoherent. The light and the presence of another person in the room seemed to confuse and trouble him. She took his hand and felt the pulse. The hand was hot, and grasped hers convulsively. She put his coat over his shoulders, and then she sat with her arm about him, and gradually he stopped talking, and turned his face to hers with a questioning look. "What can I do for you, papa? Tell me if there is anything I can do for you." "Do for me?" he repeated. "Yes, dear. Is there nothing I can do, nothing I can get for you?" "Get for me?" He drew off from her a little, and a crafty look, utterly foreign to the man's nature, came into the tense face. "I don't suppose you've got a drop of whisky!" he said insinuatingly. The sound of the word upon his own lips seemed to bring the excitement back on him. "Whisky! Yes, that's it! I don't care who knows it! Whisky! Whisky!" He fairly hissed the words. For the first time since she came into the room Elizabeth was frightened. "I think you ought to have a doctor," she said. She felt him lean against her again, and she gently lowered him to the pillow. His head sank back, and he lay there with white lips and closed lids. She knelt beside him, watching his every breath. After a few minutes he opened his eyes. They were dull, but no longer wild. "Ought you not to have a doctor, papa dear?" she asked. Intelligence came struggling back into his face. "No, my dear," he said, gathering himself for a strong effort. "I have had attacks like this before." "And a stimulant is all you need?" "All I need," he muttered. His eyes closed, and his breath came even and deep. Elizabeth knelt there, thankful that he slept. How white his lips were! How spent he looked! He had asked for whisky. Perhaps even in his delirium he knew what he wanted; perhaps a stimulant was all he needed. Of course it was! How stupid not to have understood! She hurried to her room and got a small brandy-flask that had been given her for the journey. She had emptied it for a sick man on the train. She went back to her father. He was sleeping heavily. She glanced at his watch lying upon the table beside the chloral bottle. One o'clock! She wondered whether the "store" would be open. She should hate to go to a saloon. But then, that was no matter. If her father needed a stimulant he must have it. She dressed herself quickly, and put her purse and the brandy-flask into her pocket. Then she hurried to the shed, where she saddled the bronco. Her father had once told her that she would have made a first-rate cowboy. Well, now was her chance to prove it.